Return Trip

I read Patti Digh’s book The Geography of Loss this week. In it she talked about an interesting Inuit custom. When an Eskimo is angry, the person releases the anger by walking the emotion out of his or her system in a straight line across the landscape. The point at which the anger is exhausted is marked with a stick, bearing witness to the strength or length of the rage. My first thought was of all the people I know who are angry about so many things going on in the world right now. I could picture multitudes of angry people moving across the landscape—jaws tight, fists clenched, leaning forward pumping their arms and legs—and then the forest of sticks scarring the landscape.

The custom is similar to the advice we are given for defusing conflict: just walk away and come back when you’ve calmed down and collected your thoughts. I also thought about the technique I learned in grad school for helping clients deal with any emotion. We were told to validate the emotion. We didn’t have to agree with how clients got to the feeling, but just acknowledge it and let them know that they had been heard, that we saw them plant their sticks in the ground.

What I thought was missing from the Inuit custom was a discussion of what happened on the way back, what happened in their heads when their anger was released and their bodies were tired. Anger has a lot of energy and short circuits our ability to think. It’s helpful to release that energy, but something more is needed in my opinion. On the return trip from their anger march people would be weary and vulnerable, open to reflection which is a productive use of their energy. There’s an opportunity then to learn and heal. Questions could arise on the return trip like: what was the trigger for my anger; how does that trigger represent what I value or fear; what was my part in what happened; was my reaction more intense than the situation warranted or did it reflect simmering issues or a string of unaddressed incidents that piled on; how important is the issue to me and why; do I need to make amends or how can I truly let this go?

My last thought as I closed the book was, “What about a Joy Walk?” I think we need to do more of those in a group and when we plant our sticks, be clear about what makes us happy. Walk with me?

Facets

I had an initial visit with a cardiologist a few weeks ago. He was personable and took the time to ask me about my life—marital status, kids, grandkids, career, hobbies. I had to laugh when I read his write-up of our visit in my electronic medical chart a week later. It started out with “Patient is a 76 year-old retired writer.” I never claimed that title before. I thought that title was reserved for authors who actually make money off their books, not people like me who manage to buy a Happy Meal with their royalties. Then I thought, “I write almost every day. I’m a writer.” I added that to the long list of people I’ve been.

I used to feel embarrassed by the multiple versions of me, thinking that people saw me as unstable in a world that values constancy. I no longer feel that way. I’ve been a lab tech, a dental assistant, an exercise instructor, a dance teacher, a Lamaze coach, a Brownie Scout leader, a belly dancer, a pharmaceutical salesperson, a therapist, a substance abuse counselor, the director of an EAP, the administrator of a facility for emotionally disturbed kids, a teacher, the director of a county facility for the chronically mentally ill, an administrator of a boy’s ranch for pre-release felons, a consultant to the state of North Carolina, an organization development professional for an international company, an executive coach, the director of a global coaching program, an artist, a jewelry maker and an author in addition to the family and friend roles I filled.

I’ve lived in Illinois, Missouri, California, Hawaii, Ohio, Florida, Texas, Arizona, Washington state, North Carolina, Delaware, Maryland and Wisconsin—and some of those states more than once. I’ve visited every state but Alaska. I lived on Midway Island for 16 months. I traveled to several countries.

I caught up with an old friend recently who asked me what I’d been up to since retirement. After I told her, she laughed and said, “I met one of my favorite authors recently and she said, ‘Aging is great. You get to be more versions of yourself’ and then she looked at me and added, “And, you have been many people!” I liked that. I like how all the changes I’ve made over the years have challenged and stretched me. I would have never predicted the course of my life when I left my small town 55 years ago, but I am grateful.

My life is full. No wonder I’m a writer. It would take another lifetime just to write about all the various characters that I’ve been and the places I’ve called home.

Day of the Dead

According to Latino tradition, the veil between the worlds opens at midnight on October 31st so that the children can spend 24 hours with deceased family members. What a gift that would have been for me growing up! I treasured the time that I spent with my grandparents and great grandparents and missed them when they passed away.

I had lunch with a high school friend last week. We were discussing my upcoming trip to our hometown and my excitement in returning to landmarks from my past and my intention to visit the cemetery. I suggested that the trip would be the closest I’d come to my own Day of the Dead. She said, “None of my grandkids shows the least bit of interest in our family history.” I agreed that mine don’t either. We wondered if the difference between our level of interest and that of our grandchildren stemmed from our having grown up in a small town with extended family central to our lives. Our grandchildren missed out on that.

Her parents aren’t buried in our hometown, but she is considering planting a tree in their honor in our city park. My parents are buried in Arizona and I admitted that I don’t visit the cemetery there with any regularity. We talked about the tradition of tending to the graves in our hometown and wondered what will happen to that tradition once our generation is gone. The trend these days is to be cremated, not buried, and most people opt for a scattering of their ashes. Neither of us plans on being buried. We wondered how we will be remembered if there isn’t a place like a grave to visit. Traditions around honoring the dead are definitely shifting.

It’s comforting to have traditions, of course, but I thought about the ways I remember those who have died that aren’t tied to a single day each year or to a physical place. I honor the deceased by remembering their birthdays and the days they died. I remember them when I pull the yellowed index cards out of my recipe box: my dad’s chili recipe, my mom’s meatloaf, my grandmother’s blueberry dessert. I don’t need the recipes to remember how to cook the dishes, but I love seeing their handwriting again. I remember family when I cook our ethnic dishes: pork pies, sauerkraut with sausage, kolache, spaetzle, Yorkshire pudding. I still have a grey metal pie tin that belonged to my grandmother and the white enamel pan that my mom used for her Johnny Mazetti. I remember my dad when I hear the songs Deep Purple or Alley Cat. My mom comes to mind when I hear a polka or a jitterbug. I can feel myself dancing with her again. I drove her car for 20 years after she died and thought of her each time I climbed behind the wheel. I still have a t-shirt she wore, a coat—and as I write this—my lap is covered with her tan comforter.

If all those things were to disappear, I’d still have our family stories. And if my memory fails and I forget the stories, I just have to look in the mirror to glimpse their features in my face.

My grandchildren’s memories of family may not be generations deep like mine are and they won’t be inclined to visit a grave to remember me. We may not have a full 24 hours once a year, but I trust that I’ve left them with enough memories that they will think of me now and then and I won’t be forgotten for a long time.